


Headhunter

by tiger_moran



Series: Precursor [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Shortly after being made to leave the army and return to England, Moran receives a letter summoning him to meet a mysterious professor





	1. Lock the target, bait the line

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Goodnight, Colonel Moran, because several people wanted to see a continuation of that. This is not my main idea about how they met, it's just another one of many ways they could have met

Moran is fuzzy-headed with sleep and sickness when the letter arrives, delivered by some street child but overall far too clean for it to have originated from this East End corner of depravity. The little cur seems to expect a tip for his troubles but the Colonel tries to send him on his way with a threat to box his ears if he took things that didn’t belong to him. Of course he probably wouldn't actually hit the child, but the boy doesn't know that.

“Didn’t nick it, sir,” the child says, pulling a face. “A gentleman gave it me, ‘specially for the Colonel in number fourteen, ‘e says.”

“What gentleman would do that? Entrust something to your grubby paws.” Moran eyes the dirty finger-marks on the expensive cream envelope with distaste, while in the back of his mind he wonders who knew he was here and how to address him. He has not advertised his previous profession and even if someone had guessed he was an army man they surely could not know his rank.

“Tall cove, ‘e was,” says the boy. “Nice coat. Said to put this in yer ‘ands.”

“And he paid you well for this, did he?”

The boy wipes his nose on his filthy shirt-sleeve. “Ye-no sir. Said you’d pay me for it.”

“Get off with you, trying to get paid twice; I don’t even know what this is!” Moran shoves the dirty little boy out and slams the door behind him.

“Bastardly gullion!” the child shouts and delivers a kick at the bottom of the door before Moran hears him scurry away.

“Vermin,” Moran spits after him before directing his attention to the envelope. _Colonel Sebastian Moran_ is written on it in intensely black ink, in a neat, precise and very firm hand. Somehow it gives Moran the shivers just to look at it, which is strange indeed. He has a sense that he should just burn the thing and be done with it.

He does not, because curiosity may frequently lead one into danger but Moran has stared death in the face many times before now and always got away with it and has no reason to start behaving more sensibly now. The luck of the devil, some say he has, although they also say one day his luck will run out. Looking around this room that presently passes for home he thinks perhaps it already has.

He slits the envelope open with his grimy thumbnail (that bloody dirt gets everywhere in here, and the Colonel is normally so fastidious about keeping clean too) and pulls out a single sheet of equally expensive cream paper. On it are written four things: the name of a reasonably respectable college, a date three days from now, a time (noon) and a name, Professor James Moriarty.

For all his expensive paper and ‘nice coat’ he’s a cheapskate when it comes to using ink, Moran thinks, if this is meant to be a request to meet him. Economic with words too, as if he’s writing a bloody telegram not a handwritten note. Not even so much as a please neither. It strikes him though that this seems almost at odds with the beautiful handwriting and stationary, that a man in possession of such things would not be so lacking in basic courtesy unless it was done very deliberately, say, to pique the recipient's curiosity.

He still thinks he should burn it, but now his curiosity is, of course, very definitely aroused. Why should a professor wish to meet Moran? Is not also the name familiar somehow? He lies back on his dingy bed and racks his brains, trying to remember, until finally it comes to him. He had met a Moriarty once at some army function and the fellow had a brother, a mathematician, this Moriarty had said, trying to make small-talk with an exceedingly bored (and rather tipsy) Moran who was far more interested in eyeing up the serving girl. It couldn’t be the same chap as that brother, could it?

He wonders, if the man apparently came to London to hand the envelope to some street urchin, why he hadn’t requested a meeting with Moran in London and saved them some bother, though it occurs to him that this too is a test, seeing just how Moran may act when given only the barest clues and no financial assistance. Most men would burn the paper and get on with their dull existences. Moran though already knows that he is going to that meeting. Now it is just a matter of raising the funds to get there. Time to pay a visit to some of his clubs again and see who he can cheat out of a bob or two then.

 


	2. Spread the net, catch the man

Mathematics – perhaps not quite Moran's most hated subject but it is not very far off from claiming that title. So of course this Professor Moriarty would be a mathematics professor. He hopes very much that the fellow does not intend to lecture him about numbers or equations.

Moran was unable to glean very much information about Professor Moriarty prior to coming here. He has learned that Moriarty’s academic career has been distinguished enough, if rather boring after a time. Apparently as a young man he had written some treatise or other that other academics were practically wetting themselves in excitement over and they expected great things from the young Moriarty. But now in middle-age or thereabouts he has a position here in a university that is respected enough, but his life seems to be rather dull and safe. Seemingly the greater things that had been predicted for the man did not materialise. Why is impossible to say from the data that Moran is able to find at short notice. Was the man merely lacking in ambition or has something else impeded him in his rise to fame as a mathematician? Moran has his own suspicions as to what exactly happened and those suspicions largely involve the notion that there is truly far more to this Moriarty fellow than there would seem to be – no boring ordinary man would be likely to seek out Moran after all.

Before coming here he had to pay a visit to the baths to get himself cleaned up properly, for there was no chance at all that he could make a thorough job of it in his rented room. His suit too has been washed and neatly pressed by a local laundry. This tiger may be about to walk straight into the lion's den and perhaps may not escape unscathed but at least he will look smart in doing so. He noticed the subtle but definitely admiring glances he received from a couple of fellows at the Turkish baths, and then a slightly less subtle look from a woman standing on the platform when he was about to board his train. He feigned ignorance of all them, of course, for he had somewhere to be and could not afford to be distracted.

At the college Moran is reminded inexorably of the halls and corridors of Eton and Oxford, neither of which provides him with very pleasant recollections. Avoiding the occasional questioning glances from students or other professors, he is led by a shy, pimply-faced student up to a room bearing a brass nameplate with ‘Professor James Moriarty’ inscribed upon it. The plate, he notices, is beautifully polished.

“Thank you,” Moran says but the student, having delivered him safely, scuttles off without a word. Moran stares after him for a moment, wondering about the lad’s behaviour (is he so intimidating, he wonders, or is it Moriarty who scares the boy?), before raising his hand and knocking smartly upon the door.

“Please come in,” a smooth male voice calls, and Moran enters.

Inside there is... a study. Somehow he expected something more, even in this setting, although he is not certain as to precisely what else he expected. It is not too fancy but not too shabby either, cluttered with books and papers; a globe; an orrery; a brass telescope. A blackboard on one wall is filled with scribbled numbers and letters, complex strings of them running in all directions, overlapping in places, smudged in others, all of it meaning nothing whatsoever to Moran. The furniture appears cared for but well-used, the seat of the sofa sagging a little; the arms on the chairs are rather worn, but everything is still perfectly serviceable. It is the lair of a man whose head is filled with sums and equations and formulae, the figures on the blackboard representing only the merest portion of that, and who perhaps prefers living in his head to venturing into the real world. In short it is perfectly in keeping with what Moran might expect to see of a mathematics professor. He cannot though quite put his finger on why this fact in itself seems so incongruous.

“Colonel Moran,” Moriarty says, clasping Moran by the hand. His grip is immensely strong; his palm is dry and cool and there is something innately possessive about the manner in which he shakes Moran's hand. He is a tall man, at least a couple of inches taller than Moran, and some years older also. Like Moran he is bearded, that and his auburn hair retaining most of their colour, his hair just greying a touch at the temples. Presently it is without oil or pomade to slick it back and thus several strands of it flop over his forehead, which lessens the severity of his dress somewhat. He is attired in black save for his pristine white shirt and his dark maroon waistcoat. There are faint smudges of chalk on the underside of his right sleeve and further traces on the fingers of his right hand. His eyes are a delicate shade of blue that is very nearly grey and now they are intently fixed upon Moran's face. “You have been ill, I think? Or perhaps still are?” He regards Moran's form. The Colonel is all lean muscle and angles beneath his slightly freckled skin. Never a man intended to be bulky, he is a tad underweight nonetheless and his breathing sounds just the slightest bit laboured.

“Just a slight cough, sir, nothing more. Reckon I picked up something on the boat back.” That and being obliged to live in a damp shit-hole and all, he thinks, but he'd hardly admit that to this Professor even if the man seemingly at least knows his current address.

“I see. Well, do try to take good care of yourself, Colonel; a slight cough one day may easily turn to pneumonia the next if one is not cautious.” The professor releases Moran’s hand and gestures towards a chair before the desk. “Won’t you take a seat?”

For a reason Moran cannot quite grasp, he thinks that sitting is not a good idea – best to remain standing so as to be able to bolt away quicker. Perhaps though it is simply because this situation reminds him too much of certain situations in his youth, invited to sit in the office of the headmaster only to be given a dressing down. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll stand for now.”

“As you wish. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“No, thank you sir.” Moran stands stiffly, back poker-straight and turned towards the wall. Moran does not like putting his back to doors or windows, but he thinks perhaps that to put his back to this man would be a far greater risk.

Moriarty moves around behind his desk and seats himself. His posture is relaxed, leaning back slightly, his hands resting idly on his stomach with his fingers interlaced. He has a slight paunch, Moran notices, although he seems rather sprightly and fit otherwise. “I am most gratified that you could make it today.”

Moran, unsure how to respond to this, chooses silence, and within a few moments – from Moriarty’s faint smile – gets the distinct impression that this pleases him immensely.

“I have a brother in the army,” Moriarty says after a moment. “Colonel James Moriarty; perhaps you recall him?”

“We met briefly, yes sir.” Moran declines to ask why the brothers share the same Christian name. Far be it from him to question the strange whims of the parents of a man he’s only just met, even if they were apparently an unimaginative pair.

“He remarked that there had been some sort of scandal with you.”

“Not openly so.”

“I see.” Moriarty watches him steadily. “What precisely did this scandal involve, Colonel?”

Moran narrows his eyes. “Sir?”

“This scandal that saw you obliged to leave the army?”

He knows – Moran would swear to it; would swear that the professor has already checked up on his background, has long since dug up every detail about him. There is then no sense in hiding it, and he cannot. Indeed he suspects that if he answers untruthfully here that will go worse for him. The man’s calm blue-grey eyes sear him more intensely than the sun’s rays, and he is sure he can keep no secrets from him. “Assaulting a fellow officer, sir.” Moran meets his gaze as he says this.

Moriarty pauses before he gives a faintly reptilian smile. “Violently?”

“Yes sir.”

“You're not ashamed of this.” If anything Moriarty seems pleased by this.

“He deserved it,” Moran says simply.

Moriarty lowers his gaze but not before Moran has seen the amusement on his face. “Are you sure you will not sit down?” he asks after a moment. “ _My dear fellow_.” And his accent on the last portion has changed suddenly, from precisely enunciated English to a soft Irish brogue.

Moran's face remains impassive, even as he thinks of a stooped man with an Irish accent pulling him clear of a cab that likely would have run him down otherwise. “I'm fine standing, sir.”

“Do you wonder why I invited you here, Moran?”

“Yes, and I wonder also why you've been following me,” Moran replies. “ _Sir_.”

Moriarty smiles again, a look of genuine pleasure crossing his face at Moran's challenge. “Because, my dear Colonel, a man like yourself, one whom I was considering making a proposition of employment to, I needed to observe for myself. That and I was afraid you were in danger of getting yourself killed before we had time to meet properly.”

“Then why not meet me properly back in London?” Moran narrows his eyes. “Why the subterfuge, sir?”

Moriarty shrugs idly. “Call it one of my little games.”

“You play a lot of games do you, sir?” Moran enquires.

“From time to time.” Moriarty almost seems to smirk at this. “There were of course other reasons you were obliged to retire from the army and leave India.” He produces a key attached to his gold watch-chain and unlocks a drawer under his desk. Pulling it out, he removes a thin folder and sets this down upon the desk in front of him, observing how Moran watches this movement. Otherwise the Colonel shows no reaction to these words. “You might wish to take a look at this, Colonel.” He pushes the folder across the desk towards Moran.

Moran hesitates for a second before he steps forward and picks up the folder. Opening it up, he finds a photograph of himself and another man. Although certain portions of their anatomy are concealed by their positions and by shadows, both are obviously naked and both are looking at each other with an intensity that could not be mistaken for anything but lust. He lifts the corner of this photograph and finds another beneath it, again him and that same young man, but perhaps in an even more compromising position.

It was years back, and he was drunk enough to be incautious, he recalls now. The young man in the photographs with him... Moran cannot now even remember his name, or perhaps he never actually knew it in the first place. Was the lad a willing participant in the production of these images, he wonders, or merely another victim of an opportunistic blackmailer who has seemingly held onto the pictures all this time waiting for the right moment to make use of them?

He swallows before raising his gaze to meet the Professor's again. “So what is your _little game_ now, precisely? Expose me if I do not pay you?” There is anger in his tone, Moriarty notes; all fire and fury in response to the production of these images, still no shame at all. Exactly how Moriarty likes it.

“Blackmail,” he scoffs. “Only the unimaginative or extremely bored would resort to such crude games as blackmail, my dear Moran.”

Moran closes the folder and slams it down onto Moriarty's desktop. “Then what?” he demands. “Want a taste of that for yourself then, do you?” His hands clench unwittingly into fists as he blurts this out. He remembers all too well exactly why he attacked that fellow officer, why the man provoked his rage. But within a second or two he regrets saying this, hates himself for making such an accusation towards the Professor. He holds back still, buoyed up to fight but not fighting, not yet, because this man seated before him is just as domineering, if not more so, but there is something very, very different about him. This man is serene, he thinks; he has a soul-deep sense of unshakeable calm about him that is actually very dark and deadly no doubt, but above all he is a man perfectly in control of himself. Moran still doesn't understand what is going on here, but he doesn't truly believe Moriarty has summoned him to blackmail him into either paying him money or into his bed.

The Professor looks not appalled at the idea of bedding Moran though, merely thoroughly disinterested in such a notion. “That was not why I invited you here either, no,” he says. He says this calmly, without mockery or censure; certainly without anger.

“I'm sorry,” Moran says. “For... accusing you so.”

“A perfectly understandable assumption to make, no doubt.”

“But why?” Moran asks. “Why show me that? And how did you get it anyway?”

“In regards to _that_...” Moriarty raps his knuckles lightly against the folder. “I obtained it through an acquaintance of mine, a man who has made a career out of accumulating and purchasing every bit of scandal and gossip. How _he_ obtained it I do not particularly care, for the moment at least. As to why I showed it to you...” Moriarty stands up and picks up the folder once again. “It serves as tangible proof of the lengths I have gone to to learn about you, Colonel. Furthermore, by doing this...” He strides over to the fireplace, where flames are licking around the lumps of coal. Opening the folder he takes out the photographs and tosses them into the fireplace. Seizing the poker, he jams them deeper into the fire where at once the flames take hold of the paper, curling and blackening it, devouring the images. “I may demonstrate to you the lengths I am capable of going to to protect you from harm, if you serve me well.”

Moran watches the photographs burning, staring as if transfixed by the flames. “Serve you how, Professor?” he asks, finally wrenching his gaze off the fire.

“There is time enough to explain that later.” Moriarty puts the poker back onto its stand and turns to face the Colonel. “I do know a great deal about you, Moran.”

“Oh?” Moran attempts to sound disinterested in this, but probably doesn't wholly succeed. He is not oblivious to the fact that the Professor just called him by his surname alone. Seemingly at some point, though he is unsure when, they have become _familiar_. “You mean more about me than that I've _fucked_ a man?” He is being deliberately provocative in saying such a thing, in such a coarse way also, and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He is curious as to how a man such as Moriarty will react.

All Moriarty says, still perfectly placidly, is, “A great deal more than that, yes.” He takes a few steps closer towards Moran. “May I?”

Moran stays still even as the Professor stands only mere inches from him. Watching him, he nods, uncertain even as he does so exactly what he has just consented to. As the Professor lifts his hand up and reaches towards him he has, for a split second, the probably somewhat absurd idea that Moriarty is about to slip his hand down his trousers. Instead the Professor undoes a button on Moran's waistcoat and slides his hand inside it. Moran's every instinct screams at him to pull back, to shove this intruding hand away. He stays still, tense but unmoving, as he feels the Professor's hand brush over his abdomen. Even though there are other layers of clothing beneath that hand, even though Moran has been touched upon his bare skin by countless men and women before, the physicality of the action from a virtual stranger, yet in a situation which is clearly not sexual, is almost shocking, and still undeniably _erotic_ somehow.

But the Professor's intention becomes quickly apparent to him, as he slips his fingers into the concealed pocket inside Moran's waistcoat and tugs out the pocketwatch on its chain kept within it.

Moran still watches Moriarty steadily, but the slightest narrowing of his eyes as Moriarty produces the watch and holds it on the end of its chain betrays his confusion.

“A man's watch may reveal much about him,” Moriarty remarks. He holds the somewhat battered silver pocketwatch lightly in the palm of his hand, as gently as someone might cradle some small wounded animal. Lying there it ticks steadily on, like a beating heart. “Yours... tells me much about you.”

Moran relaxes and lets out a breath he hadn't quite known he was holding in a short sharp laugh. “Oh, right, you mean like fortune tellers at fairs and that?”

“I'm talking about your watch, Moran, not reading the lines and creases in your palm.” Moriarty grins. It makes him look younger suddenly, more boyish. It is very endearing, Moran thinks.

“All right then.” There is something of a challenge in Moran's tone still, his posture too. “Tell me what you can glean about me from my watch then.”

“First of all you have the instincts and manner of a true hunter,” Moriarty says. “You are practical, cautious and thoughtful in your planning. You are not a man who is sentimental about your possessions because you cannot afford to be sentimental about them, or at least you believe you cannot afford to be so.” He carefully opens up the back of the watch's case. “You are eminently sensible when it comes to certain matters, reckless and impulsive when it comes to others. You are prone to drinking too much at times yet even during those times you frequently at least manage to maintain the illusion of leading a well-ordered life. You are not at all close to your surviving family, your father, for instance.”

“For Christ's sake!” Moran exclaims. “What has my father to do with this?”

“Precisely nothing, my dear Moran, that is rather my point.”

“What 'point'?” Moran enquires. “You make these claims about me based, you say, on my watch, but you could be making anything up.”

“Am I wrong in any particular detail?” Moriarty asks pointedly.

Moran drops his gaze abruptly. “No sir,” he admits.

“You keep your watch concealed because whilst you still need a timepiece close to hand, you do not want it or its chain exposed where the light could catch it and draw attention to you,” Moriarty tells him. “You are a true hunter and you are practical, cautious and thoughtful in your planning because you customarily do keep your watch concealed always.”

“How'd you know I'm not sentimental about my things?” Moran enquires. “I might 'ave kept that bruised and beaten up old thing entirely for sentimentality's sake.”

“And allowed it to become _so_ badly battered?” Moriarty shakes his head slowly from side to side. “No, no, my dear Moran, you have allowed it to reach this state precisely because you care so little about it. It is a mere practical object to you, no more. So long as it keeps time it makes not the slightest scrap of difference to you if the case is dented or scratched or even, here, see, the glass has a slight chip in it.”

“Most of that could be old damage, done before it were passed on to me, or I could 'ave been caught up in an explosion or something, something entirely beyond my control, and that caused all its damage.”

“The levels of tarnishing around most of these marks are not the same. Some are clearly more recent than others and all of them cannot have occurred in one single incident. But of course its internal mechanism is still perfectly intact. You have had this watch regularly cleaned and maintained inside – you care that it does keep good time, but it matters not at all to you what its outside looks like. It has not even been polished, save for where you have unwittingly polished its surface simply by handling it.”

“I drink too much at times, you said.”

“I suspect your drinking has caused at least some of this damage to the watch's case, when you have dropped it or sat upon it or treated it in some other cavalier fashion. But you have still remembered to wind it up during those times. There are slight marks around the keyhole, not so extensive as I would expect to see from a man with a severe alcohol dependency but enough for me to determine you have repeatedly wound this watch up when your hand was that little bit unsteady from the drink because, even drunk, you have at least tried to maintain an ordered life. I note incidentally that you are sober now and have no tremor in your hand so I can more or less rule out some other illness or injury causing such unsteadiness instead. ”

“And my father?”

“This watch was either purchased by yourself or, more likely I think, won in some game of cards. It was not a gift from someone important to you, but nor was it a gift from someone you loathe either, such as your father.”

“How'd you know that?”

“Because you would not have kept it were that the case. I admit, Colonel, I may have indulged in a little extrapolation here from matters I already knew about. Clearly I already knew about your habit of drinking too much at times. And your father has all but disowned you, I know that from my researches. But I know of many men whose family, fathers usually, have gifted them a watch. Your father however... I suspect all he has gifted you with is your name and an innate mistrust of and loathing for authority figures. That and the seeds of your reluctance to become sentimentally attached to objects of course.”

Moran swallows thickly and looks down at the floor. “If I may ask, _sir_ , why does it... concern you so, the state of my relationship with my father?”

“Because _you_ concern me, Colonel.” Moriarty smiles as he slips Moran's watch back into its pocket, the move necessitating he press close against Moran once more. He sees how Moran seems to hold his breath momentarily as he does this. “Or to phrase it differently, you _interest_ me.”

At this Moran glances up. They are so close he could kiss the man without effort. He wonders why he had such a thought. Moriarty is... actually not unattractive, now he considers the matter, although perhaps not a great many people would consider him attractive in any conventional manner. He is auburn-haired and Moran does have an especial weakness for redheads of either sex and that he is also a degree taller and at least several years older than Moran are both further points in the Professor's favour as far as Moran is concerned. But there is something about him, some sense that here is a man, like Moran himself, who is an expert in going unnoticed when he wishes it and that he does indeed wish that much of the time. It suggests that he is the master of secrets and of hiding himself in plain sight. Most people would never give him a second glance (or even often a first one) and would never stop to consider his aesthetic qualities. Now that Moran is becoming accustomed to the strangeness of this situation, this being summoned by a man who is a virtual stranger to him yet one who seems to know just about everything about him, his attention has shifted slightly though. And now he realises, Moriarty is a handsome man, in his own particular way.

Of course deep down, or perhaps not really so deep down at all, Moran is well aware that there is far more to his desires than mere aesthetics. He likes a certain degree of dominance, of authority and quietly confident power. Although he might be loathe to admit it, he also likes a strong man – not necessarily someone physically strong, but self-confident, self-controlled, and controlling. Still he does not wholly understand Moriarty's game here but he is well aware that the man is already pulling his strings like a professional puppeteer. Instead of stirring resentment in him as would usually be the case with anyone who tries to manipulate and control him though, this knowledge excites him, and makes Moriarty infinitely more desirable to him.

“I should be angry that you have spied on me so,” Moran says.

“But you are not.” Moriarty is right, of course, because he can see it in Moran's stance, in his face, in his hands. Anger makes the Colonel's posture stiff and rigid, makes his jaw set or the lines in his face deepen or his fingers clench. But Moran only stands there, waiting patiently, curious, intrigued, still deeply confused perhaps, but not angry. “And I would not call it 'spying' precisely.”

“Oh, what would you call it then?” Moran queries with a tilting up of his head.

“Research, simply research. Surely if you were in my position, Colonel, you would want to know about a potential employee?”

“I s'pose.”

“You seemed such an enigma to me, Moran. A man of your breeding, your education, your history, it seemed he ought to be something else entirely.”

“I fear I am being insulted.”

“Then you are mistaken. That man you ought to have been considering those portions of your history would likely have been of no use to me at all. But here you are, and here _we_ are.”

Moran wonders why the slightest shiver of pleasure runs through him when the Professor speaks of 'we'. He is a man used to being solitary, used to relying only upon himself, used to being isolated and rejected. To have somebody speak of 'we' then so soon in their association, it seems profound.

 “You have great skill with a rifle,” Moriarty states. “Incredible skill, in fact.”

Moran, sensing this comment was made as a statement of fact based on meticulous research and requires neither contradiction nor confirmation, says nothing, although his face flushes very slightly with pleasure.

Moriarty quietly observes this reaction, seeing how receptive Moran is to praise genuinely given. He wonders how often Moran has actually ever truly been praised for anything in his life – probably not often; perhaps not even since before his mother died when he was a boy. “Skill which I believe I may well have a use for in the near future.”

“Oh?” Moran laughs although the Professor's expression is absolutely, deadly serious. “And what does a mathematics professor want with a gunman?”

“I am not, as I think you have realised well before this moment in time, merely a mathematics professor.”

“Yes sir, I think I had.” Moran's gaze is drawn to Moriarty's as the Professor looks him right in the eyes, blue-grey eyes meeting blue and Moran finds himself trapped there like some small prey animal mesmerised by a predator, unable to look away, unable to move. Never has he felt so naked as he feels in this moment. All those times he has shed his clothes around other people hardly matter; a million people seeing his naked body would be nothing compared to this sensation of the Professor peering into his soul.

“I need you to, shall we say, protect my other interests,” Moriarty tells him. “Sometimes there are people who... get in the way, and it takes a certain kind of someone, with a certain type of tool, to deal with that.”

“Right sir.”

“You realise that if you agree to work for me I expect both absolute loyalty and absolute discretion from you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Try to leave my employment, or try to cheat me or betray me, and I will destroy you.”

Moran responds to this seemingly rather threatening remark with only the merest nod of his head. It is not that he disbelieves Moriarty to be willing or capable of doing this – despite the softness of the Professor's tone of voice Moran is absolutely certain that he speaks in earnest. But in truth there is something oddly comforting about having such a limit in place. Besides, he is increasingly wondering why someone would even want to try to cheat or betray the Professor.

“I believe you have a, ah, lady friend,” Moriarty says.

Moran chuckles at this, amused by the delicacy of the phrasing rather than stopping to wonder how the Professor knows of this. By this point nothing that the man could tell him about himself would surprise him - he probably knows everything about him including what Moran had for his last meal, the name of his childhood pony, and the length of his prick. “I reckon she'd be glad to hear you refer to her as a 'lady',” he says. “But I s'pose I do. Nothing too serious though.”

A small smile crosses Moriarty's face, although Moran is uncertain whether it is due to the comment about the use of the word 'lady' or that the relationship is considered none too serious. Most of Moran's past 'relationships' have likely not lasted more than a few hours. “Absolute discretion includes revealing nothing to her of the work that you will do for me to _protect my interests_.”

“Yes sir.” _Not that she'd care too much anyway_ , Moran thinks. Kitty's sense of morality is probably only slightly less questionable than his own.

“And what about 'gentleman friends'?” Moriarty enquires.

“Sir?”

“You understand my meaning perfectly well.”

“I also understand you probably already know my answer,” Moran says levelly, without any sharpness, no accusation in his tone, and Moriarty smiles in response. Moran realises as he says this that it matters to him that the Professor understands his attraction to men also was not merely some youthful indiscretion long over and done with. He is not wholly sure _why_ it matters to him that Moriarty understands this, but it does. “There have been... one or two,” he says. “Since I came back to England.”

“Then you must of course be equally discreet around any men you encounter.”

“Of course sir.”

“And you must be careful. You are fortunate, Moran, that those photographs did not come into the possession of someone who would have made a different use of them. If there was to be a repeat of such _indiscretions_ however, I may not always be able to protect you.”

“It was... a mistake, sir.” Moran bows his head, feeling still like a schoolboy being chided by his headmaster. He has the queer thought that it would not surprise him in the slightest were the Professor to bring out a cane and decide to _discipline_ him, and then firmly has to push this idea out of mind. His face feels hot suddenly, and not merely from shame, and from the way Moriarty is regarding him he cannot help but wonder if the Professor knows why the Colonel's face has flushed so. “Sorry, sir,” he says, at a momentary loss as to what else to say. With anyone else he might confront them head on, being entirely unapologetic, all brash and brazen until the other party backs off. But with the Professor it is different, and Moran doesn't really understand why.

“Colonel, I am not judging you for your proclivities you know.” Moriarty's voice seems oddly tender. “Nor for errors of judgement in your younger days. I am simply saying, now you must be far more careful.”

“Right sir.” From the way the Professor speaks, at least obliquely, about sex, Moran wonders if the man isn't essentially entirely sexless himself. The manner in which he seems to regard the indecent photographs of Moran seems so thoroughly detached, neither interested in nor embarrassed by such scenes. Moran has met such people before - people with no physical desires, people for whom sex is an absolute irrelevance, as interesting to them as mathematics is to Moran. Moran is uncertain whether he is relieved or rather disappointed by this notion.

“I may require you to perform other tasks for me, rather more trivial ones, running errands and so forth, to lend a sense of legitimacy to your working for me,” Moriarty continues. “Would that be acceptable to you?”

Moran briefly ponders how he feels about being a glorified errand boy. It should seem an insult to his capabilities and yet, strangely, that he would be a glorified errand boy for Professor Moriarty does not seem beneath him somehow. “Yes Professor, it would.”

“I shall also require your obedience, of course. Do you think you can be obedient to me, Colonel Moran?” Moriarty's searching gaze remains upon Moran as he asks this, still seeming to scour within the depths of Moran's soul to find the true answer.

Moran's first impulse is to answer immediately in the affirmative, but he falters a second or two before he speaks. “Depends what exactly you order me to do, Professor,” he replies, and from Moriarty's smile gleans that the Professor approves of this response.

Moriarty, it is true, wants no mindless slave, no man incapable of thinking for himself; he only wants someone who will follow his instructions. Nor does he want a man without any scruples at all, for such men are too reckless and too much of a liability. He knows, of course he does, that Moran would not, for instance, murder a child, nor force himself upon anyone. The man is a not-quite-stable killer, almost fresh out of the army and still burning up with resentment for their shoddy treatment of him. There is also a side to him that abhors violence and cruelty towards certain people however, or even towards defenceless animals. His anger and rage directs itself towards bullies and abusers, towards the cruel, the cowardly, the hypocritical.

“I am not a monster, Moran, do not fear,” Moriarty says. He turns away from Moran now, sparing him that intense scrutiny. He wanders over towards the window, looking out across the neatly-kept grassed area in the yard below where a couple of pigeons are pecking at the lawn. “I would not order you to do something that would conflict with your own set of morals. Besides, I too abhor certain behaviours, even if perhaps I do so for rather different reasons to you.” Partly silhouetted against the light from the window, he turns to glance back at Moran. “Bearing that in mind, will you be obedient, and loyal to me?”

Still standing resolutely upright and at attention, Moran says, “Yes sir.” He does not salute, but he emits the sense that he is not far off doing so. Strange for a man who, though he spent many years in the army, does not customarily have the bearing of a military man. Moran is a man used to life in the shadows, slinking about, creeping like an animal, concealing himself, blending in, not marching around like a man on a parade ground, not carrying himself like a man full of his own self-importance and self-righteousness. He is clean and tidy and certainly not slovenly in his attire or personal hygiene. But other ex-army men Moriarty has met have had a certain air about them, behaviours drilled into them, mannerisms they cannot shake off, a sort of rigidity to their behaviour. _Like they all have a stick up their arse_ , as an acquaintance of the Professor's so charmingly phrased it. This though is clearly a man for whom being in the army was merely a job, not his true calling.

Moriarty turns back towards the window. The movement and the shadow that the light from outside casts over him prevents Moran from fully seeing how he smiles at this reply. “I have a house in London that you will move into,” he says. “If I require your _services_ closer to hand I also have accommodation here that you may use. Your meals will be provided for you and you will be paid a salary as well as an allowance for any expenses you may incur whilst you are carrying out certain tasks for me.”

Moran listens to this, feeling somewhat bemused. It seems a little like a husband taking possession of a new wife, dictating to her what she will do from now on, where she will live, what she will eat, what her allowance is for running the household. But the Professor's dominance does not vex him and Moran is no blushing bride being shackled to some uncaring husband. He is simply rather confused still as to why Moriarty offers all of this to him – a house, food, money, a job.

“May I ask something sir?” he enquires.

Moriarty glances back at him. “Of course.”

“Why me? Why choose me to work for you?” Moran asks. Because usually he would be cocksure, self-confident, likely boasting about his prowess with a gun, but this situation is entirely different. Here someone else has sought him out – a man who he barely knows has expressed admiration for him; has praised him and has offered to reward him for his skills. Moran has had mentions in dispatches, he has won medals, but even then he always felt that such acknowledgement was grudgingly given; that his masters then did not truly want to give him any praise or reward at all and if they could have justified ignoring him entirely they would have done so. Much of his life Moran has had to champion himself and the more he has been insulted and demeaned and overlooked by others the more he has boasted about his capabilities. Now that somebody else though has recognised his talents and praised them, the pressure has been taken off him and almost at once all of his old doubts and insecurities have bubbled to the surface. He is suddenly certain that the Professor has made a most dreadful error of judgement and is going to realise this at any moment.

“Because I believe you to be suitable for the job.” Moriarty turns back to face Moran head on. He stands leaning back against the windowsill. “You are skilled with a rifle. You are used to both giving orders and taking them. You are intelligent, capable, practical, brave and also – though this might perhaps seem to be a rather trivial point – I find nothing particularly objectionable about your person.”

Moran is not quite sure whether he should take this as a compliment or not.

“That _is_ a compliment, Moran,” Moriarty informs him, reading the look of confusion on Moran's face. “I have known men who think good hygiene means bathing once a year and who reek so atrociously I could not stand half a minute in their company. Oh you have traits that I would prefer you did not have, such as your propensity for drink, but nothing, I think, that is insurmountable. Also, I think you are capable of immense loyalty.”

“Some might say I was disloyal, sir.” Moran feels obligated to say this, for no doubt those still in the army would regard him so, even though they were the ones who forced him to _retire_.

“Why would you be loyal to an institution which treated you so shoddily?” Moriarty says simply. He straightens up and wanders over to the fireplace. After peering into the flames briefly, he picks up the poker again and prods a small piece of one of the photographs that has escaped the flames deeper into the fire. “I expect loyalty from my employees, Colonel, but in return I always treat them well.” He half-turns to regard Moran again, still holding the poker.

Moran, looking at him standing there holding what could easily become a deadly weapon, wonders if Moriarty has ever killed a man himself. It would not surprise him if he has.

Without looking down or back, Moriarty places the poker back on its stand again. “Well Moran,” he says, approaching the Colonel once more. “Will you work for me? Will you do what I wish you to do? Be obedient, be discreet; above all, be loyal to me?”

“Yes sir,” Moran answers. “I will.” Because he could not possibly answer otherwise – even though he is far from entirely understanding what Moriarty expects of him. If anything this lack of full understanding intrigues Moran, and there is simply something about the Professor, something that has already inexorably drawn Moran into his orbit. Moran suspects now he may never escape from the man but that idea is not terrifying to him. To a man who has had so little stability in his life before, who has been rejected and discarded so many times, it is somehow rather comforting to have someone take charge in this way.

“Well then.” Moriarty holds out his hand to Moran, gripping Moran's hand firmly in his once more. Their eyes meet again as Moriarty, still clasping Moran's right hand with his own right hand, also covers Moran's hand with his left. The sense of domination and control is further emphasised in this gesture, but Moran makes no move to fight it or to try to pull away. On the contrary, he doesn't want this moment to end, for now standing here like this the feeling comes over him suddenly that his whole life has been leading up to this instant, this moment where things will change dramatically, and that standing alongside this strange, enigmatic Professor Moriarty is where Moran was always meant to be. “Welcome, Colonel Moran,” Moriarty says, smiling, “to my organisation.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter headings taken from Front 242's Headhunter v3.0


End file.
